8:13

Is there anything quite as humbling as missing the train by a few seconds?

You swear you would've made it, if your legs were faster, or the stairs not as many,

but the doors, which seem to relish closing in your face, sneer,

and leave you, at 8:13 pm. Alone. Not quite

fast enough.

​

Could we have made it, if it wasn't for my loud brain or the long drive?

There's no one here to turn to, at 8:14 pm, so I ask the stairs, the turnstile, the tracks,

Could we have?

The sole answer is a cruel sneer–

the empty platform,

the whistling wind.

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